Fall from Honour
by Hildwyn
Summary: A series of Norrington vignettes that takes him from the end of the Curse of the Black Pearl to Dead Man's Chest and beyond.
1. Loss

Title: Fall from Honour

Author: Hildwyn

Rating: T (for religion, and because it's based off a PG-13 movie)

Summary: A series of Norrington vignettes that takes him from the end of the Curse of the Black Pearl to Dead Man's Chest and beyond.

Disclaimer: I do not own,will not, but a girl can dream.

Notes: I am not a fan of DMC, I think the majority of characters in it were OOC, especially Norrington. The purpose of this story was to provide a basis that made it believable enough, the transformation of Norrington from a decent honourable man, to a drunken man who takes orders from the like of Captain Sparrow.

This was not going to be posted until it was completed, but in light of spoilers coming out about AWE, this will in all probability be the last fanfiction I write for PotC, and I want to get it done before the movie saps all my muse from me.

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Fall from Honour

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_(Port Royal, end of CotBP)_

Men, all me--whether they acknowledge it or not--find it easy to delude themselves into believing what they want. That could be that they play an important part in the world when they do not, that they think they are more clever than they truly are, or that someone is and can love them when it is clear to everyone else in the world that it is not the case. James Norrington is, and was like any other man--and a sad realisation it is, when you have painstakingly convinced yourself of one thing, wishfully thinking it to be true, only to find that it isn't. To find that the woman you would do anything for--that you have done so much for...does not share your affections.

Standing in the fort, dressed in his finest, all the world in balance...and three simple words of agreement can shatter reality, as it did his.

_"As is mine."_

As in, meaning that one's place is not by the side of the one who deludedly believed that he was loved, but between him and another--beside the one man who did not do things painstakingly by the book, but broke all the rules and ended more pirate than law-abiding citizen. Why?

Why is it the rulebreakers end up the ones who win in the end? Why is it that those who cheat--the pirates--win?

Norrington stood then, dumbfounded and shocked. Elizabeth had given him her word--assuring him that she was sincere in her promise to him that it wasn't something done just to save her childhood friend...and Norrington realised what he had missed all along. His love for her and his wanting her to love him had blinded him to the simple truth--Elizabeth while considering him a good match and respecting him, perhaps even willing to call him 'friend,' had always loved Turner. She had always been too free a spirit--part of why he loved her so, but too free to ever truly love or be content with a man who was bound by his duty.

And then--bound by duty, society, tradition, he had to seem in control standing there, to save face in front of him men and not continue to stand there as he was.

Norrington knew that he was within his rights to hold Elizabeth to her word--but how could he really do that? She would not be happy with him and it would kill him to know that he was the source of her unhappiness, and he just could not hold her to it. He did the only thing that he thought right--step back and let her and Turner be together.

That night he felt like the only light in his universe had been snuffed out. He went to his office to do something, anything that might bring back what was--the certainty and comfort of habit and custom that had always satisfied him before. Something to help him forget the way that she looked at Turner, and would never look at him. But no paperwork or book could distract him from the scene that played out in his head--the one in which he had been participant in scant hours before.

In desperation to stop it, he removed a decanter of brandy and poured himself a drink. Slowly glass by glass, until the sun set and the gibbous moon was high in the sky--it provided enough light by which he could pour himself another glass. Finally when he realised his limbs were slow to respond to his commands, he stood, setting down his glass, his head fuzzy. He left his office, walking by the marine guard posted at the door, stumbling into the parade grounds, passing by officers and sentries smartly knuckling their foreheads as he continued by. He stopped, having ascended to the parapet--the same area where he had stood by while Elizabeth fell to be rescued by Sparrow, also where he had stood to let Elizabeth go with Turner. The location where so many things that had happened that he wished to forget.

Sparrow and Turner, both men, both pirates who had gotten what they wanted while Norrington stood by--losing what he had wanted because he played things by the book. Sparrow and Turner on the other hand were men who did what they wanted--Sparrow doing something because he wished to and such was accorded to him living the life of a libertine, and Turner doing as he did because he was moved by his heart and not his mind. By emotion, not cool rationality.

Was that why he lost her then? His fault? That he should do his duty no matter what his heart screamed at him to do--something that had been ingrained so deeply into him by all those who had ever been around him. It was that which all men should aspire to, should it not? Why had he been told that that would be what would gain him a wife, and honour, when Elizabeth shunned him for the opposite?

Norrington furrowed his brow, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the cool stone. That was what he was--cool, unfeeling--a stone. That is what they must have thought of him--a man unable to feel, not really caring whether or not he married Elizabeth. So that was the price he paid for playing the part of the Commodore, the leader. By not being James Norrington, the man, he had only now James Norrington, the Commodore. The loneliness inherent with command was his curse to carry all his life now it seemed. But a stone cannot weep for its fate, it must be as it is--unyielding and constant. It has no choice, as he now has no choice. His duty must be done, and with dawn and the the tide in the morn' he must prepare himself, his crew, and his ship for a chase. A day's head start will not become more than that, and loss, no matter how crushing, can not be allowed to interfere with one's duty.


	2. Vice

_(Sailing the Atlantic, in pursuit of Sparrow)_

Norrington had seen many men in his life fall and become prey to the vices of alcohol--men who turned to it as the only legal way of escaping the dull monotony that came from serving as a seaman in His Majesty's Navy. Others he'd see turn to it because they knew no better--others he could make no claim to understand why.

But now...he understood. It served to dull pain--one glass--nothing nearly as extravagant as that which he had indulged in the night before he had set sail onboard the _Dauntless_, but just enough to dull the pain and boost his spirits, He knew how dangerous of a slope he was on, he'd seen men in similar circumstances--alcohol among other things like the laudanum given by the surgeon. The men became dependent upon it, unaware and denying of their dependency.

Norrington stood, hands, his palms face down on the table staring at the full glass. Captain of the vessel, God and king on the ship, no man onboard would dare question him or pass comment on his indulgence. But his thoughts gave him pause. He was not a man who would drink often--not a man who really believed much in drinking all the time--oh, of course he kept such things for special occasions, and would have it occasionally, but here...he had been so confident that he could stop anytime that he wanted but here he needed it--he knew he did. If he didn't have it, then his thoughts would consistently dwell on that day and he would be bitter and stop thinking rationally--he'd tried that already. But then...the true irony of the situation was that the only way to control it was to surrender himself to something else that impaired him and his decisions. Charybdis and Scylla--that was his dilemma--one or the other and he was no strong Odysseus or Aeneas to brave the two and come through relatively unscathed.

But could he stop? Norrington felt like he was able to, but he was afraid that it was simply his body and mind conspiring to convince him when he could not.

It was a sorry state. How pitiful--a Commodore by thirty-four--unheard of, so much promise,all to have fallen so far. The Interceptor was lost, his once certain bride promised to another, him left to chasing an elusive pirate that he could not catch, and now he had this little drinking problem to top it all off. Could things possibly ever get any worse?

Norrington moved his right hand for the glass pausing just before he touched the glass. Did he really want to do this? He had the chance to stop here and now...but he could take it later--this one would be the last one--the last one until he decided to postpone the decision once more, again and again until the day the _Dauntless_ and all those aboard her would pay for his poor decisions. Decisions caused by the inability to see rationally that there is a problem. Rationality and sense is a tricky thing.


	3. By the Sword

_(Port Royal)_

Metal gleams--metal that is well taken care of, carefully looked after, the blood cleaned off it immediately to prevent rusting, and oil rubbed over it to protect it from the elements in the air. A sword is an interesting object--made for such an ugly purpose--to kill, yet could be one of the most beautiful and remarkable objects in existence.

The one in Norrington's hand was. It remained out of its sheath, the hilt lying in his open palm, the blade resting lightly in his other hand. Remarkable, really, that it could survive such a devastating event. That it had not simply sunk to the bottom of the ocean to never be seen again. Like himself. Every second that Norrington could take a breath and release it, every time that he could eat a meal, he was acutely aware of how close a thing death had been. And he cursed himself for having cheated it when so many others did not.

What to do? That had been decided. He was a failure. He had recklessly risked the lives of his men, and of his ship, like a coward, and lost everything but his own life. As salty waves thrashed him about, driving him under, his last thought, his last prayer had been for himself. A coward's prayer.

A coward was not fit to live. Not in any comfort, or with any respect. He'd traded his honour for his life. Every time he had risked death, by the sword, or by storm, he had never panicked, never feared like he had this past time. Never had he made such a abysmally disastrous decision as he had then.

Norrington squeezed the sword in his hands until he could feel it cutting into his palms. Duty was painful, that had to be accepted. To do one's duty, one had to risk life and limb for a greater purpose. The men who did such things were great men, powerful men, not cowards. They were brave, unflinching. He'd marked himself as a coward already, and that was painful enough knowledge. How now could he face the courtmartial promised by his actions? To see placed before him all his cowardly actions, his mistakes. A brave man should be able to face and live up to his mistakes. But Norrington knew himself to not be the brave man that others thought him to be, mistook him as to be.

He released the sword, letting it drop to the ground. The clattering sound it made as it hit the ground, the way it hit the ground and bounced, held his attention.

He did not deserve to be entrusted with his sword anymore, just like he had forfeited the right to preform his duty, and hold a position of any esteem. A disgrace such as he had no place in His Majesty's Navy anymore. But where to go, and what to do? Those were questions that he had no answer for.


	4. First Week

_(Tortuga)_

The first week missing the familiar weight by his side was the hardest. Without his sword in it's scabbard, suspended from his belt he felt unbalanced, like he would suddenly tip to the side--and that in no way had to do with the copious amounts of grog he'd been imbibing. Instead of the beautifully balanced blade that he would have wielded in battle against anyone, assured in its strength, he had procured a clumsy cutlass. It was shorter than his preferred blade, he had grown far too used to the small swords that served as both a gentleman's weapon and a military weapon. Rightly so, of course, for the military was the domain of gentlemen. Something that none of these fools on this God-forsaken island would understand. Oh, they knew fighting, not fair fighting, but the dirty dishonourable sort as practised by these knaves.

What did they possibly know of being a gentleman?

What did he know?

He looked down upon himself. A baldric, hanging from his right shoulder, rough tearing leather, once what must have been a fine piece of craftsmanship, now holding his pitiful excuse for a weapon. A sweat-stained, threadbare linen shirt that was tucked into dark breeches, also clearly having seen much wear and tear, and that were slightly too large to boot. A waistcoat that had once been very fancy--rich, fashionable, but now showed its age, and if one could even make out it's original pattern, it would have been several seasons out of style anyway. Tall, brown bucket boots, not even covering his stockings--he'd had to rid himself of those days ago--served as his only footwear. And there were three final vestiges of his life before left upon his frame--a Navy great coat, a white wig, and a tricorne. The hat had been the easiest to justify keeping--hats were a necessity in the Caribbean, they acted to shade one from the beating sun, while the coat was some good against the frequent storms and numbing chill of night. The wig...Norrington did not consider himself a normally sentimental man, but why not? He really could not fall much lower than he had. Why not keep it as a token of his former life?

The outfit spoke of a man who had clearly seen better days--and his appearance of his figure did, too. He had the chance one day to observe himself in a muddy puddle. He could see the stubble upon his face that he could first feel. Dark smudges of dirt on his face, unsurprising given how he was living. He could imagine seeing the dark circles around his eyes as well--he barely slept here at all, half fearful that some madman, or whatever few ones passed for sane here might put a knife in him while he slept.

He missed so much. The certainty he once had--knowing that he would return to his berth on the Dauntless to sleep, knowing that his steward would have a good meal awaiting him. Even the salt pork, ship's biscuit, and rum--the least savory of meals a mariner in His Majesty's Navy could feast upon, or die upon...even though he rarely had to eat like the common sailor anymore...or had anymore, it was one more certainty that was gone and stripped from him. No orders to receive, no commands to give, no place to call home, just a purse full of coins, the clothes on his back, and and no purpose. The Commodore--nay, the man, James Norrington was lost. The Commodore was dead. He died that dark day that so many of his crew perished along with the _Dauntless_. The Commodore, true to what he had believed in, had died that day with his men, and gone down with his ship.

It was just James now. Norrington was no longer a safe name, not here anyway. The late Commodore Norrington was well known around these parts for signing the execution orders of so many who had once visited here, who had crewed with men here. To carry a dead man's name now was to sign his own death warrant. It was just James now.

For the first week he was able to blend enough, or get the art down enough to survive. A gash along the arm, still wrapped in dirty linen would be a scar he'd bear for the rest of his life. A memento and reminder of when it is better to keep one's head down, and not engage in a brawl with other men, even if they are intent on causing you harm. Another fight had ended with another man's blood spilled upon the tavern floor when he had toasted to the great Pirate Hunter's disappearance, and had jokingly accused Norrington of being the same man in disguise. At least most simply left him alone now.

One week, as a different man in a strange land. And he'd lived. If you could call it a life. A haunting thought, but perhaps the least of the nightmares that now troubled the former Commodore.


	5. Rum

_(Tortuga)_

Rum. Such a beautiful thing. Norrington only now understood why exactly it was that Jack Sparrow enjoyed the stuff. Or how anyone could. It burned as it went down--burning away all other feelings and desires as it went down, leaving only the charred remains of his hate, anger, love, desire, passion, despair, and self-pity.

Without them, without his having to constantly feel them--that was bliss--that was his heaven--a place where he could drink himself into oblivion.

As he neared the end of yet another mug, he slipped his hand into his pocket to get a coin, closing his palm around it before slowly and steadily withdrawing it, and then flipping it to the barkeep. Already knowing what his patron wanted, the man fetched a mug for Norrington, pushing it down the table to the former Commodore.

Norrington reached for the mug, careful to make sure he had a good grip on it before he lifted it--it wouldn't do to lose a single precious drop of the nectar of the gods, while the world twirled and spun around him, and his supply of coins was finite.

At first he would only drink to the point of being tipsy, that happy place where the whole world was a warm and consoling haze, and he felt like there was a blanket slightly muffling and delaying his reactions. After a while, that warmth and haze was not enough to distract him from what had happened, from what he had done, from the screams of dying men overpowered by the loud crashing of waves, and the taste of salt water, the sound of the mighty ship crashing on her side...not enough to distract him from his failure, or his subsequent punishment. Finally in order to banish those memories, and the debilitating self-pity he would have to drink until the whole world spun, and he could no longer remember who he was, or what he had done, and always it took more and more to reach that point. Norrington despaired that he might reach the end of his coin before he had the chance to settle his revenge and regain some personal honour and dignity and run through Sparrow with his sword.

Norrington groaned. It was happening again...he still remembered, he cared...he had had a half dozen, or was it a dozen and a half? He could no longer remember how many he had consumed, and yet it was not enough to assure him that his memories would not return. He wanted them to flee from him when he took to drink--not to return until the 'morrow when they would come crashing back, returning with contents of his stomach while his head pounded to the rhythm of drums beating to quarters…to quarters, like just before the hurricane..

To regain his power over the memories, he quickly drained the rest of his mug, a little of it missing his mouth and running down the side, trickling into his beard and drying adding an unpleasant sticky feeling to his already unclean and unwashed state. He was about to go for his pocket for another coin when he realised with dismay that his hand would not cooperate, he could not even make it to his pocket, his hand wildly missing and shaking too badly to be of any use. He groaned upset by the new development knowing that he was just too drunk to have any coordination, yet not drunk enough to forget. Doomed to have his reasons of revenge, yet were Sparrow to prance into the room--the mental image elicited a loud and drunken laugh from the ex-Commodore that sounded more like a strangled gargle--he was simply in no condition to take his revenge. A rare burst of logic from a drunken haze. Fortunately that little logic and the details of this night would be forgotten tomorrow along with the rest of the hazy memories for the past months.

Left with little else to do but drink and wait--wait for his senses to return fully and along with that the physical ramifications of forgetting one's troubles, Norrington let his head come to rest on the table, his eyes closing only moments later, followed by his soft snoring.

He had his oblivion that night.


End file.
